


Lilies and Lavender

by resistance



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Broken Promises, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Five Stages of Grief, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Julia Wicker Is Dead, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Modern AU, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Quentin has issues, Supportive Eliot Waugh, Terminal Illnesses, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, mentions of illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-29 22:50:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15738918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resistance/pseuds/resistance
Summary: The few months before Julia's death were the hardest. It wasn't easy caring for someone who didn't even remember who you were.(Alternative Title: The Only Safe Haven (That I've Known)





	Lilies and Lavender

**Author's Note:**

> Written to 'Lost Without You' by Freya Ridings. 
> 
> \---TW---  
> This one-shot focuses on grief, suffering, and unhealthy coping mechanisms. There will be mentions of suicidal thoughts, bad mental health, and talk of Alzheimer's.There's also talk of loss of appetite/inability to eat large meals, so if any of the aforementioned topics are upsetting to you, I discourage you from reading this piece, as it's quite a negatively charged one. 
> 
> As always, links and numbers for helplines will be stated at the end if you need to talk to someone.  
> Never be afraid to ask for help- you're not alone, I promise.

The suit that hung from his body didn't feel right, too tight and too itchy and too un-Quentin. The idea of wearing it for three hours made him feel sick. 

 _You're not wearing it for you._ His mind reminded him.  _You're wearing it for her._

Familiar and unfamiliar faces blurred into one, with hands on his arms, shoulders, wrapped around his middle in a way that he assumed was meant to comforting. It wasn't, he felt trapped. They all uttered the same phrases, 'Sorry for your loss' and 'She was gone too soon, such a kind soul'. He knew that- he had known her- why were they telling him things he already knew? Quentin didn't understand. 

For once, Margo and Eliot were sombre- maybe even sober, after all, this was an important occasion. They knew words wouldn't help, and so simply stood around him, holding him in an embrace that blocked out the clinking of glasses that held various types of wine. It shut out the monotone view of the black suits, the black dresses, the skinny black ties like the one that was currently choking him. 

"Would you like to say a few words, Q?" 

Alice, ever direct, lead Quentin to the centre of the room, handing him a glass of some fancy red shit Principal Fogg had supplied them with. She clinked a knife against the side of her glass, gaining everyone's attention. 

"Take it away," she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear. 

Coughing away the boulder in his throat, Quentin tried not to choke on the ache in his chest, on the weight in his lungs. "Julia Wicker is-" he caught himself, "Was, my best friend. I knew her when we were little, always inseparable. She was so full of life, even on her worst days, and after the diagnosis, she didn't stop kicking. 'I'm not taking this lying down, Q,' she said to me. And then when she couldn't recall my name, or her name, or her favourite colour, she still didn't stop being... Vibrant. She didn't stop being Julia," 

He swallowed down the tears that threatened to wobble his voice, taking a few moments to compose himself. What else could he say? The day she got the diagnosis, her world shifted, knocking Q's off-course too. Three little words that would end in Julia's demise. Early Onset Dementia. Impossibly rare to find it in a twenty-year-old, even rarer to find it at such a late stage. Any possible medication that they could have shoved down her throat would be ineffective anyway. The best thing to do would just be for the disease to run its course, the doctors had said. Half a year at most, they said. 

The meagre four months before Julia's death were the hardest ones. It wasn't easy caring for someone who couldn't even remember who you were. But Quentin did it. She may not have remembered, but he had. He had scrapbooks and text messages and photographs of every moment they had spent together. He could still feel the taste of laughter on his tongue from their last movie night. He would remind her of her past- of their friendship- every day because she was Julia. His partner in crime. He wasn't about to let her slip away that easily. 

Until he did. 

On the fourth of October, 2016, Julia Wicker died from a blood clot in the brain- a stroke. 

On the fourth of October, 2016, Quentin Coldwater felt the earth beneath his feet fall away, and his heart stop beating in his chest. 

That didn't actually happen, of course- just his luck. It just felt like everything had shattered around him, and that his heart had been ripped out of his chest while it was still beating. Julia was tough, she was a survivor, she couldn't have just... gone. That wasn't how it was supposed to end for her. She was supposed to live until she was eighty, jumping out of planes and touching the depths of the ocean. Not passing in her sleep in her mid-twenties.  

Quentin felt the bile rise in his throat at the thought and willed it back down as best he could. 

"Julia said we were going to live forever, that she'd figure out a way. She was always right, always informed, never at fault. And she was right about this too. She'll live forever in photographs, in hearts, in memories, for however long we keep them," 

Choking back the crystalline tears that were ready to spill from his eyes, Quentin raised his glass. "To Julia. The woman who'll live forever," 

Everyone at the wake raised their glasses, muttering 'To Julia' quietly to themselves. Quentin made his way to the edge of the room once more, placing his wine glass down on the table and sparing a glance at Eliot and Margo, who were staring back at him with pitying looks. He walked out of the room, out the front door or Julia's parent's home and down the street to the pathetic swingset people called a park. It was always empty, the kids in the neighbourhood preferring to play video games or go out on their bikes, making the perfect safe haven. Quentin shrugged off his blazer and loosened his tie, dropping the former to the ground beside the swing he was sat on.

He slumped, burying his face in his hands and raking his fingers through his hair. It mussed up his small ponytail, pulling out strands that brushed his eyelashes every now and then. 

"God, Jules, what am I gonna do?" he asked the wind, knowing his question fell on deaf ears. Now that he was alone, he could feel the tears welling up again. He didn't bother to stop them, knowing full well that he couldn't even if he wanted to. Heavy, scratching sobs tore at his throat, ripping at his chest. His face was wet with salty tears within seconds, tracks running down his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. He didn't wipe them away, knowing more would just come and take their place. 

Ugly, raw cries were wrenched from his lungs, shaking his whole body with each stuttering breath he took. He knew people passing were staring at him, and for once, he didn't care. He was too tired and too sad and too _angry_ to care. He felt cheated, a full life with his best friend torn away from him so soon. He wanted revenge on the cruel winds of fate, to make them feel how he did. 

He was still sobbing when Eliot came to find him. He knelt in front of Quentin, still a head taller than him, even at this level. He pulled Quentin close to his chest and let him let it out. A fresh wave of tears rolled down Q's cheeks, stinging at his eyes and blurring his vision. God, it hurt so much, he wanted to scream. He wanted to cry and scream and cry some more because _they took **Julia,** Eliot_. They took Julia and left him all alone again.

And yes, he felt selfish- he felt so fucking disgusted with himself for being angry because he wasn't the only person who knew her. He wasn't the only person who loved her. But he was the only person who had seen her cry and scream and shake, just as he was then. He was the only one who had seen her ramble about magic and Jane and Fillory. He was the only one who knew every side of Julia, and- goddammit- he was angry. She had been taken from him and he was so full of rage that all he could do was sit there and weep, hot angry tears that burned at his skin like magma. 

 

Eliot must have taken him back to his apartment at some point. He didn't remember when, though. Time moved slowly, like hot tar, somehow still moving all too fast. He didn't know what day it was, whether it was still the day of the funeral or not. All he knew was that he was on Eliot's couch drinking expensive whiskey out of a crystal-cut glass. He downed it one go, grateful when Eliot immediately filled it back up. Down his neck in one again, and again, and again, until suddenly he wasn't so angry anymore, and everything seemed fuzzier than before. He felt the soft plume of Eliot's pillows before blacking out completely, world fading to nothing for the second time. 

 

 

He awoke to a drilling in his skull and a desert in his mouth, throat dry and parched. He wasn't in his suit anymore, stripped down to his boxers and unbuttoned dress shirt. His tie was neatly wrapped into a roll on the bedside unit beside him, blazer, belt and slacks folded on the chair in the far corner. He couldn't hear Eliot moving about in the apartment, simply assuming he was out doing Waugh things. 

Quentin staggered out into the kitchen, met with a glass of water and two Advil, alongside a sticky note that held Eliot's handwriting. 

_Change of clothes on the counter,_

_Back around 5-ish_

_-El_

Quickly dismissing the note, Quentin downed the Advil and the water, leaving the glass beside the stack of dishes that he guessed were from Eliot's breakfast. He grabbed the change of clothes and got dressed quickly, happy to find that Eliot had picked up his comfy grey track pants and favourite hoodie. 

 _"Mourning clothes,"_ He remembered Eliot saying. Huh, maybe he just assumed Quentin would stay with him for a while, or at least until the hangover wore off. 

Whatever. 

Quentin trudged back to bed, hiding beneath the feather duvet in the hopes that sleep would take away the hollow ache that was left in his chest. 

At least if he was unconscious, he couldn't feel the Julia shaped hole in his heart tear at him. 

 

* * *

 

He spent the next forty-eight hours like that, ugly sobs and silent weeping to boot. He drank the water Eliot left for him on the bedside table, knowing full well he wouldn't manage any solid foods. Not in his state. 

Three days after Julia's funeral, and Quentin had no more tears to cry. He was numb, knowing that same dull ache in his chest, but feeling it a thousand miles away. Autopilot had set in. 

Wake up, eat breakfast, work out. Shower, change, make the bed, do laundry. 

Clean Eliot's apartment- which, at some point, had become his as well- top to bottom. 

Study, make dinner, have a drink and talk with Margo, watch crappy TV with Eliot. 

Lather

Rinse

Repeat. 

He wasn't fooling anyone, of course- least of all Eliot. That boy knew every trick in the book when it came to convincing others you were okay. 

 

Two weeks passed:

Food became a chore. He couldn't keep down the dinners he'd make Eliot and himself, often falling asleep in the spare room of Eliot's apartment with the taste of bile in his mouth and an empty stomach. Margo caught him throwing up one night and switched him to what she called 'Child portions'. She'd done the same thing with herself after a particularly bad break up, apparently.  The idea of eating still made him feel sick. 

Sleep soon stopped working in his favour. Rather than block out the pain he was feeling, his mind amplified it, giving him dreams of Julia burning every photograph he'd taken of the two of them, his memories fading just as hers had. He'd wake up in tearful fits, usually almost immediately muffled by the burying of his face into his pillows. He didn't want to burden Eliot any more than he already had. 

 _'The rent was extortionate anyway,'_ was all Eliot had to say on the matter. Still, Quentin felt like a bother. 

 

One month passed: 

Alcohol didn't have the same fuzzy effect as it had after the funeral. It didn't quell his anger or slow his tears as it once had. It left a burning in his throat and a bitter taste in his mouth- at least he could feel something. He'd had Eliot pour his cheap booze down the sink more than once. 

"You'll end up in the ground if you keep drinking like this."

_"Good."_

"That's not something to joke about, Q," 

_"Who said I was joking?"_

Eliot took him to and from therapy sessions from there on out. Anti-depressants in multiple colours- never to be taken with alcohol. Everything still hurt- too fresh and too raw and too close to home for it to be anything else, but at least he wasn't on autopilot anymore. 

 

Two months passed: 

With the help of Margo, Eliot and Alice, Quentin officially moved into Eliot's apartment, feeling the first hint of warmth in his chest since the funeral when he looked at his new house key. It was good to let go of the place that held every painful memory of Julia inside it. 

His photo album of him and Julia sat proudly on the shelf in his room. He still took pictures, starting a new album of him and his friends. Maybe he wouldn't live forever, but given the right care, his photos would. The memory of him would. 

 

Six months passed: 

He felt himself smiling again, truly smiling. He'd laugh at Penny's absurd stories and listen to Margo's gossiping over mugs of tea. The ache in his chest didn't hurt so much anymore. 

He was back in manual mode, autopilot officially shut off. He finally felt in control, and for once, living wasn't a chore. 

"You're smiling again," Eliot had said to him, brushing a knuckle over the curve of his cheek.

"Good to have you back, Q,"

 

A year passed: 

Julia had been cremated, as per her will, a year ago. Her ashes had been scattered across the forest that she and Q had played in as kids, playing make-believe in their own Fillory, but she had a headstone in Brakebill's Priory Cemetary. It didn't hurt Quentin to visit it anymore. He always left flowers- lilies and lavender were her favourites. 

"I think I'm finally okay, Jules," he had said to her headstone on one of his visits. "I think... I think I'm ready to move on, to live my life properly," 

A soft breeze picked up, brushing the leaves of the willow that overshadowed her headstone. Quentin smiled, knowing it was her. 

"I knew you were going to live forever," he said fondly. 

 

When he returned home, Eliot was sat on the couch, a glass of wine in his hand and an Adam Sandler romcom on the TV. He turned his head at the sound of the door unlocking, smiling when Quentin entered the apartment. 

"Hey, Q. How was it?" 

Quentin hung his jacket up on the coat stand, kicking his shoes off beside it. He smiled at Eliot. "It was... It was good. I think I finally let go, and- and I think she was happy to know that," 

Eliot gave Q a fond look, handing him the glass of lemonade that he had waiting ready on the coffee table. Quentin hadn't touched a drop of alcohol for eleven months now, and God was Eliot proud of how far he'd come. 

"What are we watching?" Quentin asked, sitting beside Eliot on the couch and leaning against him. It was common for them to snuggle on the couch of an evening, content to just sit in each other's company. 

Eliot snorted, going to take a sip of his wine. "Who the fuck knows. It was on when I sat down, "

Quentin chuckled softly, necking a bit of his soda. 

That was all they said for the rest of that evening. 

 

Eighteen months passed: 

Quentin had developed somewhat of a crush on his roommate. 

Okay, so it was a little more than a crush. He was minorly attracted to his friend of many years- oh who was he kidding. 

He was head over heels for Eliot Waugh. 

* * *

 

**SAMARITANS (UK + ROI)**

116 123 (UK)  
116 123 (ROI)

jo@samaritans.org (UK)

  
jo@samaritans.ie (ROI)

 

 

 

**MIND:**

Mind Infoline: 0300 123 3393  
mind.org.uk

**CAMPAIGN AGAINST LIVING MISERABLY (CALM):**

Helpline: 0800 58 58 58

thecalmzone.net

 

 

 

 


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